His mind always goes back to Malibu in 1992. To the summer with his highschool sweetheart. He did it again. 20 years and Mista still pines for you. He'd do anything to be back there, his hand imprinted in the asphalt, next to yours.

"Money isn't an issue, right?" Mista asks over the phone, his tone slightly desperate. He can taste the iron as he bites his tongue.

He knows that you're some man's trophy, locked up in a house in New Jersey. But he still wants you, and he might be to blame.